


With Regards from Master Darkheart

by EskelChopChop



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crack-adjacent, Fade to Black, Himbo Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lambert Being Lambert (The Witcher), M/M, Papa Vesemir, beta'd we live we die we live again, dumb fluff, morosexual Eskel, netflix season 2 geralt armor made me do it, vesemir deserves a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26936596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EskelChopChop/pseuds/EskelChopChop
Summary: “I fucking knew it!” Lambert brays. “Think they call him Daddy? Master? King Sugar Tits?”Eskel grunts low, usually a warning to the keep’s perennial pup, but who could look at that showgirl getup with a straight face? “Shut it. Probably ceremonial. Uh. Contract payment.”“Sure.” The single word drips enough sarcasm to eat through stonework. “From the whipmakers' guild.”Geralt returns to Kaer Morhen in an... interesting new set of armor. The other witchers have opinions, especially Eskel.Crack and fluff inspired by those promo images for Season 2 of The Witcher.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 17
Kudos: 184





	With Regards from Master Darkheart

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this is my first attempt at writing crack / fluff / light airy froth / whatever this is. Much gratitude and love to @asfroste for reading the roughest of rough drafts and kindly pointing out the 1,000 words that didn't fit the genre and to @Kiko_Murda for the detailed beta-ing and dick jokes. 
> 
> For the record, I'm excited about Season 2! Just-- feeling very ready to lean into the absurdity. 
> 
> Enjoy...?!

Eskel hears Geralt first. Come late autumn, he keeps to the battlements where the sweep of the valley opens up beneath him. Can hear everything up here, echoing between the river rocks and the roots of the Blue Mountains. So when horse hooves come clomping up that little-used path to the keep, all Eskel needs to do is lean between the turrets and tilt his head. Nothing there yet but trees and dust. 

Lambert clambers up behind him. Eskel doesn’t turn to look but he knows it’s not Vesemir because there’s none of that old man smell-- no offense, old timer-- and the footsteps jump up to the battlements like a show dog ‘stead of taking the stairs.

“‘cited to see someone?” Eskel asks. “That bored of us already?”

Lambert snorts beside him. “Are you really gonna blame me, Eskel? Old man’s starting to repeat stories and I’ve already heard your jokes. Both of ‘em.”

Half of Eskel’s mouth breaks into an easy grin. He’s not about to strain the other half for Lambert’s sake. “How ‘bout a new one. What drops bullshit, but only out its mouth?”

“You telling Geralt he’s not a dumbass?”

The man’s got a point. Eskel has no real defense against that one, but he’s about to open his mouth and trust it to come up with something anyway when the look on Lambert’s face throws him off-step. It’s a mix of narrowed eyes and popped-high brows. Eskel follows his gaze down the valley. Roach, whichever Roach Geralt’s got this year, has clopped into view.

So’s Geralt. 

Eskel blinks. 

Lambert laughs-- and laughs, and laughs. The braying’s making it even harder to figure out what the hell Geralt is wearing. Nobody on the Path’s got business wearing boiled cowhide, but blink as he does, Eskel sees nothing riding that horse’s back but black leather lovingly shaped by someone’s who not been ploughed for years. The pecs look swollen to burst. 

Lambert leans his elbow on Eskel’s shoulder. “I take it all back! Eskel, you saucy dog. You brought a Novigrad whore all the way out here? For me?” 

Eskel can’t summon words for a response. Like his eyes, his mind’s stuck on the obscene slope of leather over Geralt’s chest. Could be a jerkin? Good year, good eating, good muscles, pulled tight? ...nope. Somebody sculpted those boiled-leather abs and had the fucking gall to call it armor. A corset would do more against a blade. But pour a glass of water down Geralt’s nominally armored chest, and he’s got a whole grid of canals to glide it down his sides. Dripping.

Eskel gets an eyeful of that image. Suddenly, even with Geralt riding up in armor that wouldn’t deflect a squirrel claw, it’s a contest who’s the bigger idiot. 

Kaer Morhen’s prize prick hasn’t caught on, luckily for Eskel. He’s howling like a pup for a withheld ball. “I fucking knew it!” Lambert brays. “Think they call him Daddy? Master? King Sugar Tits?”

Eskel grunts low, usually a warning to the keep’s perennial pup, but who could look at that showgirl getup with a straight face? “Shut it. Probably ceremonial. Uh. Contract payment.”

“Sure.” The single word drips enough sarcasm to eat through stonework. “From the whipmakers' guild.” Lambert leans over the wall. “Hey Geralt! Looking good, Daddy. You wanna depose Papa Vesemir?” He collapses on the stonework and wheezes like he’s inhaled smoke.

“Take it easy,” Eskel gruffs, slapping Lambert a little too hard on the back. “Gonna hack up a lung on his head.”

Geralt’s heard them, or at least their voices. He tilts his head up and the sunlight gilds his silver hair and about a thousand steel rivets. Somewhere, a hapless shipwright is trying to figure out how to hold planks together with spit and glue. 

“What?” Geralt calls up from below.

Lambert tries to yell something back. Eskel slaps him hard on the back and hears the air catch in his lil’ lamb lungs. 

“Says we saw you a mile off, Wolf,” Eskel calls. “All that color.” He can’t resist.

Geralt glares up at them in his black-and-rivets mass. Starts to yell something back but Lambert’s bucking against Eskel’s grip so as the big brother here, Eskel has no choice but to lean more weight on him until he stops. 

“What?” Eskel yells over Lambert’s wheezed obscenities. 

“I said, ‘open the damned gate!’” Geralt yells back.

“Oh yeah,” Eskel mutters. Forgot about that. Lambert’s flailing all wild-like underneath him and by sheer habit Eskel pins Lambert’s arms in place. Hm, decisions. Let Lambert go and open the gate, or keep Lambert’s mouth shut for another few precious seconds?

“Hey,” Lambert pants. “These gents charge by the hour. Get down there, you broke bastard!”

Tough call.

Then, an older voice: “What the blazes is the matter with you?”

It _was_ tough for a second there.

Eskel straightens immediately. If he were passed out on White Gull, his liver would hear that voice and get him sobered up in minutes. Lambert flails himself upright, pulling his leather jacket into place with a huff as if he’s got anyone to dress up for around here. Eskel’s face pulls itself into something formal, best he can manage. Vesemir’s glowering down there in the courtyard, clearly expecting better. Yeah, old man, I know.

“‘pologies, Vesemir!” Eskel yells.

“Can’t even open the damned gate for a brother tired from the road?” Vesemir throws out his arm in arc so exasperated, it can’t even complete a semi-circle. 

“He was distracted!” Lambert yells. Eskel tenses-- for a roughhousing hug or a shove off the wall, well, that’s Lambert’s call now. 

“Distracted?” Vesemir must sense there’s no good to come of this conversation. Without waiting for a reply he turns and ambles toward the wheel that’ll lower the outer bridge across the old moat that’s empty now of everything except decades-old skeletons. 

“Yeah,” Lambert shouts. Eskel’s still debating hug or wall, hug or wall. “Got a massacred cow herd at the gate.” 

Wall it is.

Eskel’s too late to shove him over. Vesemir barely even pauses to sigh and turns the creaky wheel that he keeps well-oiled through the seasons’ abuse-- Eskel oughta to look into that, see about taking that chore over-- and from here they can hear the old witcher muttering about foolish pups these days and if old Varrin were around, why then-- but the bridge crashes down and Old or New Roach’s hooves clop into the courtyard. Lambert’s already off and Eskel takes off after him. Someone’s gotta do Lambert damage control. 

Geralt’s dismounted by the time they reach him. Instinctively Eskel inhales and there’s dirt, sweat, blood but crusted-old-irrelevant, beef jerky, horse-female-youngish but not a colt, a little older than last year’s. So Geralt’s managed to keep this one alive another year. What an achievement. Geralt meets Eskel’s eyes, knowing brows lifted. It has been three seasons since their eyes last met, and the man’s come dressed like an invitation.

Not a private one, unfortunately. Lambert’s auctioneer’s eye moves up and down the sleek black length of Geralt. “Makes you look washed-out,” he says finally, riffing on all the notes of disapproval. “You’re too pale to wear all black.” 

Geralt’s eyebrow quirks. “Nice seeing you too, Lambert.”

That finishes the greeting exchange in his eyes, so Geralt looks to Eskel again. In that stupid fucking paper shell of a cuirass with leather that must feel so smooth to the touch--

Vesemir’s chosen this moment to saunter into the courtyard. Eskel and Geralt straighten, and grudgingly Lambert falls into line. 

The unhurried crunch and rub of armor draws nearer. It stops. Eskel waits for-- he’s betting on ‘choked sound of disbelief’ as the likeliest reaction. The silence stretches. Finally Eskel risks a look at Vesemir’s face.

Huh. Haven’t seen Vesemir’s mustache bristle like this in decades. Last time, it was because Eskel and Geralt had dared each other to Axii wild animals and bring ‘em into the keep walls. Eskel had brought in a nine-tined stag; Geralt brought a warg. Yeah, that was a learning experience. 

Vesemir looks Geralt up and down, and up and down, and left to right. The ancient viper eyes jump from rivet to rivet like a skipping stone. 

“Geralt,” the old man rumbles, “what in hell am I looking at?”

Lambert breathes in. Eskel steps hard on his foot, throws an arm around those skinny shoulders and crushes them to his chest. 

“What?” Geralt says. He honestly doesn’t know. Hard to believe they sing songs about him outside. Eskel still remembers the day Geralt tried to save time by Aarding his armor off instead of undoing the buckles. It wasn’t that long ago.

Vesemir points at Geralt’s stomach-- or the stomach molded by a leather worker who’s had a few too many lonely nights. “That.”

Geralt looks down, looks up, a little sheepish this time. “Lost my armor,” he mutters. They’ve all got witchers’ hearing, so not a syllable’s lost. “Completely ruined in a leshen fight. Didn’t have much coin, bad year, so I had to make-- alternate arrangements.”

Did Geralt pick the worst possible phrase on purpose? Eskel squeezes Lambert into a suffocating hold to cut off any clever remarks. All Lambert can do is squeak. 

The other two witches don’t notice. Vesemir’s distracted trying to Igni Geralt with his eyes and Geralt’s busy getting incinerated. “Alternate arrangements?” Vesemir grates.

“Yeah.” Geralt tries a nonchalant shrug. “Armorer said he needed help with odd jobs and he’d let me work it off.”

“How odd were these jobs?”

“Mostly involved picking up heavy stuff and moving it to the other side of the workshop.”

“With your shirt off?” Lambert squeaks out. Eskel squeezes him tighter. 

Geralt’s eyebrows furrow, uncomprehending. “Sure. Gets hot back there.”

Vesemir’s had enough. He turns his head as if this is all too much to bear. “Just-- get inside and--” The old witcher can’t help but take a last look. “And-- dress properly!” 

This last is an explosion of syllables that leaves them all silent even as the old wolf stalks off. 

“I say,” Lambert says in the dignified tremulous tone that means he’s channeling Vesemir, “today’s youth dash about in their slatternly sluttery. In my day, armor covered your ankles to your forehead. Proper witchers, we were!” 

“Lost my eyebrow armor on the road,” Geralt says.

“Think you lost a lot more than that,” Eskel says.

“Come on,” Geralt says, “it’s not that bad.” 

“Not at all,” Lambert says. “Though I would’ve found a different way to tell the old man you’re switching careers. What should we call you now? Master Darkheart?” 

Geralt blinks at him. “Huh?”

“Wrong moniker? Sorry. What’re you going with? Daddy Thunder? King Blackfist? Or you sticking with White Wolf for marketing purposes?” 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Lambert,” Eskel says, “you ain’t exactly one to talk.” He fingers the leather of Lambert’s black leather jacket.

“Ahh,” Geralt says with a grin just for Eskel, “he’s just jealous he’s not the slick-looking one around here.”

Lambert smirks. “Geralt, there’s a difference between looking slick and looking wet.”

It takes Geralt a second to register. Eskel spins toward their little brother but Lambert’s already sidled out of reach.

“Whoops,” Lambert says, all innocence as he starts jogging backward, “just remembered I left a potion on the stove. Welcome back, Geralt! See you at dinner!” And he’s off, cackling to himself as he dashes across the courtyard. 

So then it’s just the two of them: Geralt and Eskel. Also, technically, Roach, who seems much less bothered by the whole armor situation than the rest of them.

Geralt’s face relaxes. Lambert’s their brother, but also a potential health hazard. It’s a little easier to breathe when he’s not around. “Is it that bad?” Geralt asks, his voice admitting just a hint of doubt.

Eskel grins. “It’s giving me bad thoughts.” 

Geralt returns the grin. “Hoped it would. Remember that jacket I got that one time? The one that got ripped up the day I got it?”

“Yeah. You don’t have good luck with clothes.”

“You remember what you said when you saw it?”

Eskel tries to think. “Something like…”

Ahhh, yeah, he remembers. Geralt’s standing very close to him and finishes the thought for them both: “You said: ‘Ride up to Kaer Morhen in that, and I’m getting my cock in you before you can stable Roach.’”

They both look at Roach, who stands placidly unaware of their sudden attention. 

“So this getup’s for me, huh.” Eskel keeps his grin wry, but he knows Geralt hears his fool heart picking up a jig anyway. “Had to ride up to the front door in your lingerie?”

“Was kinda hoping Lambert and Vesemir wouldn’t be around.”

Eskel laughs. “Geralt. I dunno how you keep yourself alive out there.”

“Gotta. Got someone to come home to.”

Their bodies lean into each other now. Eskel presses a hand to that ridiculous armor. “Knew this was only good for taking off,” he says.

Geralt leans his forehead against Eskel’s. “That what you’re gonna do?”

Roach still isn’t stabled. Eskel’s hand wraps gently around a fistful of Geralt’s hair. “I keep my promises, Wolf.” 

\--

For the first week, they don’t leave the keep. 

In the second week they spot a wyvern and go hunting. All’s well until Eskel’s geared up at the gate and Geralt emerges in his brothel armor. It is actually the only armor he has. Eskel’s forced to seriously reevaluate his life choices until they take down the wyvern and Geralt pushes him against the cave wall in a flush of battle lust, blood lust, and the old-fashioned kind, too. Eskel decides there are worse choices.

One night, they stumble down to the kitchen to find Lambert trying on Geralt’s new armor. Lambert claims he’s trying costume concepts for a one-man play titled _Lord Nightdick and the Knights of the Pound Table_. That gets them both laughing so much that Lambert actually starts writing it-- or at least, he starts periodically insulting Geralt in rhyming quatrains. 

Vesemir spends a lot of time sighing and taking long walks by himself. Around the winter solstice, Lambert figures out how to make a better potato vodka. Vesemir’s mood noticeably improves.

It’s a warm winter.

THE END


End file.
